


Never a Ghost

by Thesherlockholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mary Lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2018-11-03 03:45:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10958973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thesherlockholmes/pseuds/Thesherlockholmes
Summary: Mary is alive after the gunshot. John is still angry at Sherlock. They have to work things out, but the question is how?





	1. Breathing

The bullet pushes through her torso-in the same place she had shot Sherlock. The sharks only continue to swim above her, casting shadows over her body. Sherlock is pressing his scarf into the wound. Vivian Norbury is handcuffed and is being led out of the room, leaving only her and Sherlock alone. "Mary, it's going to be alright. Just focus, please, focus on me, Mary." says Sherlock, his voice quivering as he tries to remain calm. Quick footsteps echo down the hall. 

"Mary! Mary!" she heard John- her John, her love- shout. He is rushing over to her, pressing Sherlock's scarf into the wound now. "John.." she could feel herself falling into herself and being consumed in darkness, she tried to choke out another word, 

"L-love..." John was shushing her, telling her to focus on him, but she couldn't. Her eyes slipped close, her last vision being John's face looking at her worriedly, his mouth set in a straight line, forehead creased, but there was love there. He really still loved her. Her John.....

"Mary!" John pressed his fingers to her throat. There was a faint heartbeat. He continued to put pressure on the wound. There was hope. The silence was interrupted by the heavy, booted steps of the emergency team coming quickly down the corridor. John looked up to them and nodded to Mary, unable to speak. They rushed to where they were and began to unfold the stretcher. Sherlock moved towards John as they loaded Mary onto the stretcher and carried her out of the room in the aquarium. John rushed after them, followed by Sherlock. There was an announcement about the aquarium closing as they made their way quickly out of the hospital. The emergency team loaded Mary into the back of the ambulance. John looked back at Sherlock- don't say anything, she's shot because of you. He turned and climbed into the ambulance, leaving Sherlock behind as the ambulance sped away.

John stood in the corner closest to Mary, watching as the nurses examined her. They checked her breathing, before examining the wound. After assessing it, one nurse began to attach a canula to her to administer fluids. He taped it to her arm, as another nurse began covering her bare torso with a warmed blanket after apply the laparotomy pads to help stop the bleeding.

"Sir, her condition is serious." said the nurse turning to John.

"I'm a doctor, what is the suspected treatment?" asked John firmly.

"Surgery, injury to right quadrant, suspected injury of the liver. We've applied laparotomy pads and fluids. Her breathing is stable." said the nurse before checking Mary's pulse to ensure that it was, in fact, still stable. The ambulance quickly arrived at the hospital. The stretcher was pushed rapidly into the emergency room and into surgery. John was required to stay in the waiting room. Of course. 

He stared the only empty chair down for a moment- he wasn't sure whether he hated the chair or hated himself. He hadn't been there for Mary, he could have prevented all of this. He could have- well, he didn't did he? He felt that his hands had squeezed far too tightly into fists. Inhale, exhale. He flexed his hands open. Inhale, exhale. He might as well sit down in this bloody uncomfortable hospital chair and wait. John looked around at the rest of the people. Who were they waiting for? What did it matter? Mary was in surgery- she had only a slim chance of surviving- but she would. Nothing could stop her. Not him, not a bullet, no one. She would survive- wouldn't she? John slowly inhaled and exhaled. He felt tears come to his eyes. Mary was everything to him. What would he do without her? He stared down at his hands gripping his knees. Inhale, exhale.

"John?" a familiar voice, soft and cautious sounded behind him.

No, not him. John lifted his head and turned around to glare at Sherlock. How dare he come here? How dare he? He was the reason she was in surgery. He was the reason. Inhale, exhale. Sherlock walked towards him.

"Don't you dare." snarled John, "She's-" John swallowed the lump in his throat, inhale, exhale, "She's in surgery..... because of you-" inhale, exhale, "and your bloody arrogance." John's eyes shot daggers at Sherlock. He didn't care what he had to say or what his excuse was. Sherlock turned from John and left the waiting room, his last look reminded John of a lost, abused puppy.

How dare he?

John inhaled and exhaled again. He wanted to kick something, he wanted to shout at Sherlock and at Mary and at himself. Inhale, exhale. What did they think? Inhale, exhale. That he could handle everything just bloody fine? Inhale, exhale. That after everything he had done? Inhale, exhale. He could handle it? Inhale, exhale. He couldn't. Inhale, exhale. He lost Sherlock. He couldn't- inhale, exhale- couldn't lose Mary. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I play fast and loose with medical terminology after doing minimal research, so any suggestions for accuracy are welcomed both in medical terms and generally. I don't really know where exactly I'm going with this story, but it will feature a kind and sympathetic look towards Mary.


	2. Alive

The waiting room had emptied, leaving John alone in the clinical room lit in harsh lighting. John had been given a cup of tea by someone sometime earlier, when someone told him Mary was still in surgery "that she might pull through" but 'most likely not' was what John heard. He knew the tone. He had used that tone in hospital before, telling wives of wounded soldiers that 'He might pull through.' Now the tea had gone cold, undrunk on the table with the stack of magazines by his chair and John was staring into nothing somewhere in the vicinity of his knees as he had been since the nurse had gone. He'd been able to calm down, slightly. Not ten minutes after hearing this, John was not alone in the room anymore. The sound of dress shoes and an accompanying clicking sound came with the new arrival.  
"John." John looked up to see Mycroft, leaning on his umbrella, looking down at him.  
"What do you want?" asked John, glaring at him.  
"Come with me." said Mycroft, turning to walk out of the room, John didn't move, "Dr. Watson, for the safety of..... Mary," it seemed that in the pause Mycroft was deciding something, "I must tell you to follow me." Mycroft turned around, "Immediately."  
John got up, fine have it your way, exhaled and followed Mycroft out of the hospital. Outside the entrance, the familiar black car of Mycroft's awaited, the back door held open by the chauffeur.  
"Only for Mary." muttered John, getting into the back seat followed by Mycroft. They sat in silence as the car left the hospital. Mycroft on his phone and John staring straight ahead.  
"Your wife," said Mycroft, putting the phone into the inside pocket of his pristine suit, "would be, shall I say, in jeopardy if anyone knew she was alive. There are people after her, John, and they would find her. I have therefore arranged for her to be cared for in a private hospital, one so secret not even the majority of the government know of its existence."  
"How do you know then?" asked John, interrupting Mycroft's leisurely speech. "Well, I'm not the government, am I?" asked Mycroft, his tone indicating not to answer, "She is there, now. If she does pull through-" "She will." "-she must remain in a safe house. I would secure it, of course, and you, Sherlock, and Rosie would be the only ones that know she's alive."

"No." said John, "She will not live in a safe house. She will live in our home. With me." said John  
"John, she wouldn't be safe there. She can't have a normal life. She's being hunted down by her enemies. People in her profession don't usually reach retirement age. They're retired in a much more permanent way." said Mycroft, the car pulling to a stop. John's door was opened by the chaffeur.  
"It's the only way John." said Mycroft, as John got out of the car.

The building that John was now in front of looked nothing like a hospital. It looked far more like a chateau one would find in the countryside, much larger however. He walked as quickly as possible to the door and made his way into the building, Mycroft following.

"Mary Watsons' room." said Mycroft

"20" said the receptionist behind the desk, "Do you know the way?"

"Yes, thank you." said Mycroft setting off with a nod across the entry hall to the door at the end. "Do come along Dr. Watson." John unclenched his fist and followed Mycroft down the hall.

"What is this then?" asked John hurrying behind Mycroft.

"You'll have to be more specific."

"Oh, well, let's start with how the hell did you get Mary here safely?"

"These are some of the best doctors in the country. They transported her in an ambulance with expert care." John huffed at Mycroft's leisurely tone and the fact that his umbrella kept taping on the dark wood floor.

"Alright, second, you know your way around here pretty well. Why?" Mycroft stopped and turned toward John, only raising an eyebrow.

"Come now Dr. Watson, that is rather self explanatory. This is her room." Mycroft opened the door for John, but didn't go in, instead motioning for John to go in. John stepped inside and heard the door close. He was alone.

He looked around the room for a moment, mostly to avoid looking at the main feature in it- the hospital bed. The walls were white, with the same dark wood trim as the floor, and there were various paintings in the room along with a television. John finally looked at the hospital bed and exhale before walking towards it. The machines beeped around it- heart rate, blood pressure, fluids, morphine. He looked down. There was Mary, her blonde hair matted behind her head. She looked almost peaceful, probably knocked out for hours. She was alive. God, she was alive. John bent down and laid his head on her hand. He felt tears running down his face. She was alive. She was alive. She was alive.He kissed her hand gently and wiped the stray tears from his face before straightening back up. He pulled a chair around to her left side- less obscured by machinery- and sat, holding her hand. Grateful.

Hours passed, John kept holding her hand thankful that she was breathing ever time he heard her inhale. A few doctors came and went, kindly supplying him with tea and offering books, magazines, or the television. He declined the offers, only wanting to be on full alert for Mary. A doctor had left a few minutes ago after checking her heart rate and cleaning  and redressing her wound, telling John she might come around and that she did.

"John?" Mary's voice was hoarse and barely audible.

"Yes, yes I'm here. I'm here Mary. You pulled through." John whispered, feeling tears form in his eyes again.

"Love...." Mary drifted out of consciousness again, having not even opened her eyes. At least she spoke. John leaned back in his chair and prepared to wait some more. Things were going to work out. They had to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh that took a long time huh? This chapter just didn't want to be written, but here it is. I promise to update more frequently- much more frequently. Comments are greatly appreciated. Also, I've been looking for a beta but haven't found one. If anyone's up for the job, let me know!


	3. Lost

Sherlock headed to John and Mary's flat to get some clothes for John and the baby who was now with Mrs. Hudson. The air was crisp for January, pleasant with the coat on. He found the key under the mat- _predictable-_ and let himself in. Immediately he was hit by the mixture of the couples' lives together. Mary's perfume was overlaid with the scotch John liked to drink. The lamp was bought by John, the couch by Mary. Dining room was all Mary. Bedroom, agreed upon by John- not liked. He would never go for that duvet- he doesn't like green. Sherlock went over to the closet and found a few of John's less repulsive sweaters and jeans, socks and pants. He packed them in a bag and went to the nursery for Rosie's things. He packed the little bee he had gotten her first, then the flower- evidently last used by John, and tucked in his hair: stray hair on the stem.  _Adorable._ Sherlock moved quickly through the rest and returned to the living room laden with three filled bags. 

_I wonder if he misses his chair and the fire place and me...._

Sherlock pushed the thoughts out of his mind and hurried out, locking the door behind him and replacing the key under the mat. 

* * *

He heard the door open behind him, but didn't turn around expecting a nurse. 

"I brought you a change of clothes." said Sherlock standing in the doorway. 

"Put them on the chair." said John, not looking at him. Sherlock set them there and began to walk towards Mary.

"Don't. You don't get to." 

"John...." 

"Leave."

Sherlock stared at John, _I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry_ , before leaving, the door clicking closed behind him. 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock walked down the hall, barely turning the corner before slumping against the wall. Too much was all he could think. The hospital itself was too much- too many memories- clouded with horror and pain. He grit his teeth. And now- now- Mary is here, getting well, John faithfully by his side but where was he when I was shot by her? Nowhere. With her. What did the past matter? I knew how this would ended, dreaded it, waiting on edge until he left. They always leave. It was John. Conductor of Light. My life. My breath.

"I told you- don't get involved." Mycroft stood by his side- insufferable umbrella in hand.

I walked away. I had nothing to say in response- piss off, how would you know, shut up, it's not true. I said nothing. 

Out of the white walled, sterile, landscape paintings on the wall hospital Sherlock took a breath. He walked out to the main road- he damn well wouldn't take Mycroft's car. After a few minutes he was able to hail a cab and was on his way to Baker Street. If he was very lucky there would be a pack of cigarettes in the bison head to tide him over until- no, no. John wouldn't approve. But John wasn't there. He wasn't there. He wasn't. 

The cab was moving far too slowly. The earth was turning but how? Arriving back in central London, the busyness distracted him slightly. Everyone going about their silly lives outside the window. The cab stopped, Sherlock paid with a few too many bills, getting out in a haste. But a haste for what? There was nothing waiting for him now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah. A year hiatus? Soooo sorry. I might have gotten scared of my writing. Which is ludicrous. I also am going a different way with this than I originally thought I would. Whoops. Time changes people, ideas. Whatever. Enjoy the upcoming chapters- maybe I'll actually write them before the next season of Sherlock comes out, but no promises!


	4. Drink

Whiskey had always been John's drink of choice. There still remained a bit of it in the kitchen, but it wouldn't be nearly enough for what Sherlock needed. He stopped to buy some of it- of course he knew precisely where John bought it as well and did the same. He returned to the flat and was immediately struck- again- but the darkness and emptiness. He opened the bottle then, still standing in the doorway. He took a swig, before removing it from the sack which he discarded carelessly to the floor. He hadn't the strength to put it away properly. He took another drink before putting the bottle down to remove his coat, then his suit jacket. He closed the door behind him, reclaimed the bottle, and settled into his leather chair. Confronting him was the red chair. The chair he had graced. The chair he sat in, laughed in, weeped in. Another swig. Tears pricking his eyes. Stupid, intolerable, ridiculous sentimental feelings. It was just a chair. It was just a cozy chair. Just a chair that was perfectly suited to John's pêchant for jumpers. The Union Jack pillow suited to his loyalty to Queen and Country. Suited to his perfection. Another swig. He tore his eyes off the chair. The clench in his chest had become too much for him to bear any further. Lessened barely by another drink. Then another. The yellow smiley face mocked him. Staring down at him from the wall. How he wanted to shoot it out of existence. He wouldn't though. It was a reminder of John's own cleverness. The cleverness of keeping a sentiment from their second case. From the case he had saved John. Was that the reason John had painted it on the wallpaper? The tears had started to come full force now. They drenched his face, then his neck, his shirt collar. He drank. The burn in his throat distracted from the tears, the clenched lungs, the thoughts, the memories, the sentiment, the hurt, the betrayal. Betrayal. BETRAYAL! John had left him after everything. Everything he did for the man. How he risked his life. Not once. Not twice. Did he not see? Did he not care? Not a bit? He threw the bottle at the wall. At the yellow spray painted face. Damn. Now he needed more to drink.

"Mrssssessss. Husssson!" He shouted with a slur. "Mrssss. Husson!" Weaker then, quieter. Where those steps on the stair? The door opened and Mrs. Hudson came in.

"You called dear?" She asked looking over at him. "Oh dear! You look terrible!" She hurried over to him then, feeling his head for fever, wiping away his tears. Sherlock batted her hand away, sitting up and tried to focus on her face.

"Mrssss. Husssson, so sweet, have any brandy?"

"You've had enough to drink from what I see." 

"No use are you?" He pushed up from the chair, staggered past her into the kitchen. He retrieved John's old bottle of whiskey from the cupboard. He brought it almost to his lips. He couldn't drink it though. It was all he had the once belonged to John. Perhaps John's lips had touched the bottle. Perhaps he had drunk from it sometime. Sherlock place the bottle then on the kitchen table.

"Can't." He pointed to the bottle, speaking to Mrs. Hudson, "John's." 

 He clenched his jaw, struggling to keep his tears back, struggling to keep in the whine that had built in his chest, struggling to keep from weeping for the loss of John. He braced his hands on the table, trying- all he could do was try- to breathe.

"What is it?" asked Mrs. Hudson, coming over to him. She placed a hand on his shoulder. He couldn't answer her. He could barely bear her comfort, her kindness. She was too good. How could he bother her? 

"He's chosen." Sherlock finally said, his voice cracked, and then he was crying again. His body shook. His arms barely able to support him. Mrs. Hudson turned him onto her shoulder. She held him as if he were a child, rocking him, stroking his back ever so softly. Sherlock wept, heaving sobs, the pain in his chest rolling down his cheeks. They stayed like this, gradually becoming quieter, recovering. Finally, Sherlock wiped the tears from his face, his palms wet. He wiped them on his trousers, and looked down at Mrs. Hudson. He was unable to speak, but he knew she understood.

"I'm sorry love." Indeed, she did know. She enveloped him in another hug, pecking a kiss on his cheek. "I'll be downstairs if you need anything." 

He stared past her, vacantly nodding. She left then, patting him on the shoulder before returning to her flat. After a few minutes Sherlock gathered himself as much seemingly possible and headed out to get more to drink. If he was going to be able to wait to find out if John would return to him, he would need a great deal to drink. 

* * *

 

Sherlock woke in his chair, with a searing headache, rumpled shirt and pants- probably beyond repair. Well, no matter. A whiskey bottle lay on the floor, the last of its contents having soaked into the carpet. He must have dropped it at some point. Did he black out or fall asleep? He couldn't remember. Sherlock sat up and picked up the bottle, looking to see if there was a drop left. Nothing left though. He'd have to get more. 

Eventually Sherlock got up, only to find that his entire body ached. Nothing new, but it was never pleasant. Sherlock looked around for his phone- he found it behind the sofa, how had it gotten there?- and checked for messages. _Nothing from John, why did I think he would text?_ Trying to push the thought from his head, Sherlock shrugged on his coat and scarf and headed out. He had to get out of the flat, there were too many memories. Memories in the walls, the carpet, the chairs, the eyeballs in the bathtub. 

Closing the front door- only John pulled the door closed by the knocker, he would have to do it now- Sherlock squinted in the daylight. He considered getting a cab, but no, there would be an empty seat and silence. Instead, he walked about aimlessly. He walked through a small park nearby, stopped at a cafe and drank two espressos, walked more. The world was still going on. People bustled by on the sidewalk, in cars, the tubes were running. Everything continued, except for him. What was he to do? Numerous times he walked past dodgy alleys, stopping at every one, just considering, just thinking. It would stop the pain. No, it would only cloud it with eventually more pain. He continued on eventually, but the pull was almost, so nearly irresistible. His feet felt like they might have gotten blisters and it was only when the pain became cutting that he turned back towards Baker Street. More whiskey was acquired before he returned. 

When he did, he faced the flat, the quiet, and had no idea what he was to do. How did other people handle this pain? He decided, once again, to move the chair. He contacted a few of his homeless network to help him- he would place it in John's room. _Now his former room._  In the meantime, Sherlock made the flat the mess it had been before John had ever lived in it. The two hours before. The two hours the flat had been only his, alone. It felt slightly better. Most signs of John had been covered up. He checked the time. Quarter after three in the afternoon. John would still be at the hospital. It would be better to avoid him. He would go check on Mary later, much later. 

The chair was moved. He could see into the kitchen again. The space before him mocked him. The dust outlined where the chair had been. Well, Mrs. Hudson would vacuum that away. Sherlock opened the bottle of whiskey. Sure it was early, far too early. But he didn't care. No one was here to stop him. 


	5. Silence

He arrived at the hospital at 3:40 in the morning. If John's sleeping patterns were anything to go by, he would be soundly and deeply asleep for the next half hour. Plenty of time to get to Mary's room, check on her, _check on John_ , and leave- his presence never need be known. 

Steeling himself, Sherlock entered the hospital and made his way to Mary's room. Number 20- _very funny Mycroft._  He opened the door, _no other way the number would stop mocking him._ His eyes first caught upon John. He was asleep, his head resting by Mary's hand. His face spelled out sorrow, anguish, stress, sadness, worry. It was obvious how little he was sleeping, how much he had been crying, and how much he loved his wife. Had he been speaking to her? Had he been holding her hand? He must have, that's what people do when they love each other. _His hand in mine as we ran from the Yard. Ran from Moriarty as of we had a chance to outrun him. The two of us against the rest of the world._ He looked up to Mary's face. Her hair had been brushed, just a bit so it wasn't as matted down. The blankets were arranged so they would hopefully be most comfortable. _Not anymore._ Mary was still unconscious. That was what he had wanted to know. He left then with another glance at John. _Let me hold you until your sorrow bleeds into me._ He closed the door and continued down the hall. He didn't leave, rather he found his way up to the roof. He sat down on the top of the building, on the hard concrete, and looked up at the sky. It was enough out of the way of the city that Sherlock could make out a few stars in the sky. _That's primary school stuff! How can you not know that?_

"What does it matter?" sighed Sherlock to the stars.

 

* * *

John opened his eyes, blinking away sleep. The clock said the time was 4:30. Mary was still breathing. The damn machines were still beeping. He sat up, stretched, and pressed a kiss to Mary's forehead. His body was cramped and aching from the position he had slept in and he could use a walk. As he had done the day before, because he had been too worried to leave Mary completely alone to go for a walk outside the hospital, he walked up to the roof of the building. It was a labarinth of hallways and elevators and a final stairwell to find the place of solitude and silence. He laughed dryily as he opened the door, _such a history with roofs of hospitals. Damn him._ He breathed in the clean air. The first breath he had taken that day, the hospital air couldn't possibly count with its pressing sterility. The door closed heavily behind him. 

There was a cold breeze that made him shiver slightly. He didn't mind though and sat down on the cold concrete near the roof border. He leaned his elbows on it, putting his face in his hands. There was a courtyard in between the hospital buildings. He could make out a few benches in it and a tall tree. _Who was treated here? It was exceptionally exclusive so why all the buildings?_ He tried to bury deeper into the sweater he was wearing, but it was simply impossible. _What am I doing? Sitting out here. Why am I so lucky? It should be Mary, not me._ A small voice questioned whether it really should be Mary. If that was what his feeling of conflict was really over. He tried to ignore it. _I love her. I've stayed with her thus far. She loves me, she almost died for me._ So did Sherlock the voice reminded him. _Twice. Would Mary do it again? No, I owe her now. She came back. She forgave me for not understanding. She forgave me for when I went away when she was pregnant. That was her fault in the first place though, isn't it? She left to protect you and the baby. How can I forget? She'd never quit mentioning how little she knew about Rosy. I owe her. I love her. I know that._ John's eyes roamed over the court yard again. He counted how many windows were lit from inside (fifteen). It was the same dialogue going through his head. Every time he went through it he never felt any less conflicted. _Face it. Face your problem. The real problem. Stop avoiding it._ The thoughts sounded vaguely like Ella. _Sherlock._  A single thought, a single word, a single person. John felt tears prick his eyes at the thought. His mind wouldn't stop now that he let it start. Over and over. _Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock._  He was weeping now, his head buried in his hands.

 "Sherlock." The word tore itself out of his chest without his consent, on the end of a sob. _This was ridiculous. John pull your self together. You have a wife who needs you right now. It was his fault in the first place, remember that. Remember that._ John wiped the tears from his eyes, taking a deep breath, putting the thoughts aside. He had to get back. He got up, physically shaking the thoughts off before marching resolutely back inside the hospital. The door closed behind him.

Coming out from behind the stairwell entrance wall, Sherlock crossed to where John had sat. He ran his hand along the border. John had been crying. John had said something, it sounded like his name, but it couldn't be. It wouldn't be. _Would it?_


	6. Awake

Six days later all of which John spent by Mary's side drinking cup after cup of coffee and speaking in whispers to her, the eyes that had been closed in slumber fluttered open. Their eyes caught before Mary's closed again. 

"Mary? Mary?"  _You're alive. You've pulled through. Just a bit more._ John went out to inform a nurse before coming back in. Soon, Mary was taken off the sedative and a bit of the morphine, and John was left waiting for her full awakening. The nurse had informed him that she may or may not fully wake up today, that when she did she wouldn't be able to stay awake for long, and that he should just be patient. _Easy enough for her to say._

None the less he waited. It was an hour before it was over.

"John?" Her voice was barely more than a whisper, cracked and rough from disuse.

"Mary!" John looked up at her. Her eyes where open, looking down at him slightly glazed but there was love, warmth, and relief there. "You're here. You're here." He stood up and kissed her, gently gently, over and over. "Love. You're alive." He whispered between kisses. "Alive." 

"Yes, love. I'm here." Her eyes had filled with tears. "I'm here." 

"Thank g-d." John sat back then, continuely placing kisses her hand. They were in silence for a moment, the air between them full of love and relief and a sort of desperation- what for they didn't know. It lasted only a few minutes however before Mary fell back asleep.

In and out of lucidity Mary drifted for two days before gaining full consciousness. John continued to stay by her side, running through what Mycroft had told him, how he was going to tell Mary. After all, all Mary wanted was a normal life. The life as she said of Mary Watson.

 

_Arriving from the airport, they had left Sherlock back at Baker Street, gone to pick up Rosie, and gone home. The evening was filled with tense silence as they ate takeaway, as John turned on the tellie, poured a glass of wine, and sat on the couch. Mary had settled by him then, not a word said since the flight. Of course she would be the one to break the silence, to speak. She always did things her way, didn't she?_

_"John?"_

_He ignored her, took a sip of wine._

_"John, please. Can we talk?"_

_"What could we possibly need to talk about?" He asked harshly. Eyes on the television, defenitely not watching it. "There's nothing more I have to say."_

_"And I couldn't have anything to say!"_

_Silence._

_"Sorry. John, listen." She paused. Quiet, indecisive, would she turn back, drop it? "I'm sorry."_

_"Sorry?" John exhaled a laughed, "You're sorry, huh?"_

_"John I am. I shouldn't have left. I know-"_

_"Damn right."_

_"I should have talked to you. I should have trusted you. I do trust you."_

_More silence, another pause. She picked some invisible flint from her pants._

_"Could you look at me?"_

_"I don't think so."_

_"John please!" Her voice had strained now. John felt the shoulder of his shirt get wet as she pressed her forehead to it. "Please John. Please."_

_"Well?" He turned his head. Her face was still down against him. "Well?"_

_She looked up at him, "All I want-" she cleared her throat, "All I want is you and Rosie and everything that comes with you. All I want is Mary. No one else, not Gabrielle, not Rosamund. I want life with you as Mrs. Mary Watson. That's all. Please? Please, John."_

_"Alright. Alright." She cried against his shoulder the rest of the night._

 

"Two more weeks and then you'll most likely be let to go home." said the nurse after checking Mary's progress.

"Thank you." The nurse nodded before the leaving the room.

"Two weeks John!" Mary smiled over at him.

"Yeah. Yeah." He smiled at her reassuringly, hiding his insecurity.

"What is it?" 

"Nothing, nothing." 

"No lying, no sparing my feelings. What is it?" She looked at him, trying to figure it out.

"Well, when you first came here- well Mycroft had you transferred and then he came to tell me-"

"Bastard. Interfering, meddling bastard." 

"Right. Well he said that we wouldn't be able to go home. That it wasn't wise given your.... associations."

"And he wants to put us in a nice little protected _safe house?_ "

"Hit the nail on the head." 

"Over my dead body. _Sorry._ "

"Well I made it quite plain that we were going to live in our house, and raise our family normally."

"Good. Good." 

John nodded, patted her hand. _I hope this is the right thing. I really, really hope it is._

 


End file.
